


Condemnation of the Tetrahedron

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Negligence, a lack of self worth on daves part, sadstuck honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 07:43:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4738217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You were probably born out of an ocean of orange soda, posing placidly on a bed of shitty, five-dollar swords bought off ebay, with your baby tufts blowing in the wind as puppets, dangling from their strings like cherubs, sang of your arrival to the world. You’re a cooldude, and one day you’re probably gonna be a Bro, and nobody knows irony better than you except for him.</p><p>	The only problem is that he knows it so much better. Sometimes, you wonder if you’ll ever catch up."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mad Snax Yo

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely un beta'd, so it might be total shit, but at this point I'm just hoping to have it done.

Your name is Dave Strider and you'll fight for anything you can get. 

You're twelve years old, five feet tall, and your high score on MadSnaxYo is completely meaningless because the game is so shitty that paying attention to the score would defeat the entire purpose of playing it. You know this, because you're practically an expert in all things ironic. The only one who could possibly compare to your abilities is your brother, but sometimes you don't even count him, because he's just so _fucking ironic_ that you don't stand a chance at beating him at his own game, ever. To put it in terms that even the most simple of neopet-hoarding goobers could understand:

You play MadSnaxYo because it's terrible. It's so terrible, and you and your Bro are so great, that playing it is ironic. Now, there are a few ways to ruin an attempt at this kind of wicked irony. You could, for example, become actually invested in the game, therefore making you a loser for caring about something so terrible. John does this all the time-he's one of your newest friends. He's got no idea how irony works, but that's okay, and you hang out with him anyway because not everyone can be as cool as you and Bro. That's a fact. At some point, you have to settle for friends like that, right?

The other way that you could fuck the irony up is if you really sucked ass at the game anyway, If it's terrible, and it's beating the shit out of you because you're worse, then that's the worst way to break irony. It's the worst because not only do you fail to be cool, but you also fail everything anyway. You don't just become a goober like poor John, but you become shit. Luckily, you don't know anyone who does that. Nobody.  
Man, if you met someone like that, you'd be so embarrassed you'd have to stop talking to them forever. Maybe demand they be isolated forever so that they don't spread their chump-disease to the innocents.

MSY is an easy way to tell how ironic someone is, because either you play the game and care too much (goober mc lameass), you suck major ass (president of the chumpfuck society of disgraces), or you play the game well, but without giving a fuck (cool).

Here’s where you start getting to the point. MadSnax’ is absolutely and without a doubt, the worst game you’ve ever put your fingers to the controller for. You don’t pay attention to your score, because it’s meaningless. Your brother’s score though—and this is kind of amazing, your brother’s score is sky high. He has the top score, at 7 Billion DoritoPoints (DP), give or take a couple hundred-thousand. Normally, anybody who’s got minimal training in the art of being a CoolDude Ninja would look at that, scoff, maybe throw their head back a little, and say, “Man, that fucker’s taking this game _way too seriously._ He’s goin’ legit.” However, you are not only a certified expert in this, but you’ve also seen your brother in action, as he deftly moves around his own glitchfuck skater.

And there’s nothing legitimate about it. Hell, there’s nothing legitimate about him. If it wasn’t super uncool, you’re sure you could rip the control from his hand, throw it out the window, and accidentally end up braining a mother of three in front of her traumatized children and the yappy little dog mop of a dog she’s probably walking, and Bro wouldn’t give a fuck. He’d not even give a shit. He would probably stare at you, and misinterpret your enthusiastic expulsion of his controller as jealousy and rage over how good he is at that game. He might even be a little bit right. He’d ask you just what the fuck you’re doing, and probably send you to your room, or have you go practice your sword maneuvers on the roof.

Except, that would be ironic too. Because in reality, you’re pretty sure he doesn’t give a fuck. He’s loaded, so he could buy another shitty controller, and you’re absolutely positive he wouldn’t care about some accidentally murdered woman in the street, by your own careless hand. He might even give you a high-five over that. After all, accidental and unintended lethal brutality is pretty ironic, right?

Maybe he wouldn’t even care if you didn’t do what he told you to. Maybe you could sit your ass down right next to him, and it would be ironic? Maybe he wouldn’t mind. Maybe that’s what he’s expecting, for you to develop some kind of new irony, something that neither he, nor you have done before-

But, at the same time, probably not. That’s probably not ironic. You don’t-shit. Alright. Getting kind of candid here, you may as well remove the sunglasses and take off all your clothes to make the metaphorical nakedness literal. When it comes down to it, maybe, just maybe, you don’t actually understand it. 

Like, fuck, you’re better than anyone else you know at this, except maybe Rose, but she’s-you can think about her later. You know this better than so many other people. You were probably born out of an ocean of orange soda, posing placidly on a bed of shitty, five-dollar swords bought off ebay, with your baby tufts blowing in the wind as puppets, dangling from their strings like cherubs, sang of your arrival to the world. You’re a cooldude, and one day you’re probably gonna be a Bro, and nobody knows irony better than you except for him.

The only problem is that he knows it _so much better._ Sometimes, you wonder if you’ll ever catch up.

But that’s neither here, nor there. The point of this is that Bro can play Mad Snax Yo, without caring if the game actually self destructs while playing it, and he still gets scores that are completely impossible, and really, that’s how cool he is. His scores make you feel like the dictator of the presidency of the chumpfuck society of disgraces, which is stupid because the scores don’t actually matter, and you don’t want to actually care about them at all-you don’t. You don’t care at all, you just wish there wasn’t such a big gap from his scores to yours, and that you could catch up even a quarter of the way without actually having to try, or legitimize your care about the game.


	2. Cool Dudes Watch Shitty Ninja Flicks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the formatting is all fucked up

The most time you spend with him that isn’t getting your elbows scraped on the rooftop is when you watch movies with him. There’s nothing special about it, aside from watching other people live out their fictional lives on television. He likes the ones in Japanese or Chinese, and sometimes Korean or something, and sometimes he’ll watch them without subs, but you’ve got no idea what they’re saying unless they use some word you’ve read trawling around the internet, like “sugoi” or “watashi” and even then you don’t really know what it means.  
You’re not sure if he does either, because you hardly even hear him speak English, let alone another language, but honestly you wouldn’t rule it out. You can’t stand them because you like words, and talking, and if there aren’t even subs to guide you along, you get bored, and sometimes fall asleep. It’s obviously not cool when you fall asleep, because you’re twelve, and you should be eager to stay up until like, three AM watching films with your brother, but you can’t. If you aren’t interested, you just-  
Uhg.

 

The movies that you do like are the really weird ones, and the really shitty ones. You like them because it’s easy to understand how one could appreciate them ironically, and you don’t have to try hard. You’re especially fond of the ones from around the 70’s or 80’s, because they finally have color film and they’re starting to figure out how to use special effects, and Clash of the Titans, the 1981 version, is a heaping pile of shit that you love to make fun of. You also like John’s movies, although you can’t like them ironically even, because they’re just that bad, but you can watch them with Bro and point out all the things you pointed out to John, and sometimes he’ll throw in his own observations about them, things you wouldn’t realize because you’re just not at Bro’s level.  
It’s a little bit of a double edged blade though, because then when you make fun of those movies to John, you realize how your points pale in comparison to Bro’s. Like, if Bro’s points were people, they’d probably be beefed as fuck, with rippling abs and mountainous biceps and thighs that could crush a motorcycle, and yours, well, yours are pasty, basement-dwelling teenagers who jerk it to Lucky Star or something (this doesn’t change the fact that they’re valid points, and John’s movies suck. Get wrecked, Egbert.)

You’re actually watching one of the movies now, although it’s one of Bro’s type, and one of the subless ones. There’s like, a lot of people yelling, and running around, and up-close shots of eyes behind masks, and a lot of metal slamming into metal and really pumped-up music.  
It’s one-twelve in the morning and you’re beginning to nod off. You know that’s not cool, but for all the arm-pinching and holding your breath, you can’t help it. The palm of your hand is pressing so hard into your cheek that you can feel the red mark it’s going to leave, like a sweaty, slightly tender brand of chumpitutde on your skin. A glance over at Bro shows that he’s still sitting upright on his end of the futon, one arm over the back, slumped a little in his seat, but in a cool way, one ankle resting on his knee.

Your eyes slip back to the television, and you try to invest yourself in the screaming and clanking, but you’re so _tired._ Within minutes, you fall asleep so forcefully you can’t even remember your own name.

You don’t dream, but you do feel as though you’ve fallen head-forward into an abyss, and the plummeting sensation sticks with you, and your stomach is lurching with the precipice, like how some people feel right before the big drop on a roller coaster, or how you feel when your brother manages to catch you by the back of the shirt during a strife, when the ground is suddenly yanked forward as you jerk back, and he swings you, up, up, and all your limbs go either tenser than a tightrope, or as limp like a ragdoll, depending on your ability to think while he’s doing it.  
When you finally resurface, it’s got to be well past four in the morning, and your neck is bent at an awkward angle, both arms tucked under your chest to protect them from the wandering gusts of the living room fan, and your legs are bent like you’re trying to ride a horizontal bicycle. You realize, slowly, that the side of your face is warm, the side that’s hidden from the fan, and it takes you even longer to realize it’s pressed into your brother’s side, probably picking up the texture from the cheap, shitty fabric of his polo.  
Your heart stutters, and then inflates. You can still hear screaming from the television, and you look up (you’re shadeless, when did that happen? Did they fall off, or-) and catch the lower image of a decapitation on screen.  
_Shhhhhhhhtk!_  
The body falls.  
Bro’s arm comes up, and you can see the faint glow of the remote as he brings the volume down below forty. Your heart’s swelled so much that you can feel it in your throat-and then it pops. There’s a thud, and a shudder, and it’s not anything anyone can hear (except _maybe_ Bro, because he’s just that much of a ninja badass) and your eyes start to burn, so you shut them quickly.  
He didn’t shove you off the futon, and you honestly can’t believe it-because what you’re doing is so _lame._ This is stuff for little shitbrained kids who can’t control their own limbs and stumble onto somebody’s lap because they’re naive and trusting and need somebody to change their own defecated diapers. You don’t think you’ve asked Bro to pick you up-ever, actually. Honestly, you’re not a big fan of it. You’re _proud_ that you aren’t. Sappy shit like that-like demanding to be picked up, or hugged, or asking for somebody to comfort a nightmare away-it’s all terrible stuff for kids and you’re proud that you don’t need it but here you are with your face pressed into his side, where you can feel the outline of the waistband of his pants under your cheek, and you’re _crying._  
This thought upsets you so much you almost jerk your head away-but then he’d know. He can’t know. God, this is so fucking lame. He can’t know. You’d rather throw yourself off the roof. Your thoughts are building like a pile of smuppets, getting higher and thicker and larger and taking up all the space in your brain and you can barely think aside from fighting any movement. Your eyelashes are wet, and the first errant tear, a rebellious turncoat who you didn’t fucking want in your eye anyway, runs down your cheek, slowly.  
It feels giant, and terrible, and you’re silently begging for it to slide into your mouth just so that it doesn’t hit Bro’s shirt, and by some miracle of fate, it does.  
Are you upset because Bro might find out how pathetic you are, for crying even when nothing bad is happening, or are you losing your shit because this is so close to what you’ve wanted, and the fact that you want it proves you’re weaker than he even knows-unless he does.  
Because he might.  
This isn’t even affection from him-you know it isn’t. He would never. He’s just putting up with you sleeping with your face pressed into him, like some kind of—fuck. Like some kind of dependant baby who can’t survive more than a minute on his own.  
You feel terrible, as though there’s something rotting in your stomach, and you can’t bear to realize that you’re just as scared of him finding out, and getting disappointed, as you are of this brief moment ending. You make active attempts to regulate your breathing enough that it’s not completely obvious that you’re halfway to the shudder-shake town of baby tears.

Somehow, wet, sticky eyelashes and all, you end up falling asleep again. 

When you wake up, you’re barely conscious long enough to experience that mid-air plummet before you slam into the ground gracelessly. Your glasses drop onto your back seconds later. You pull yourself to your feet, and when you turn to look at your brother, his back is turned to you, and Cal is wrapped around him, staring at you with his full, limpid eyes.

You don’t spend long in the main room after that. When you make it back to your bed, you discover that it’s five forty-three, and that you can remember the split second where he snuck his warm hand behind your back, and shoved you right off the futon.

You’re lying there, and you realize that it shocks you that his skin is warm, and you feel ridiculous admitting that, even to yourself, because he has blood flowing through his veins, just like everyone else, but it never really seemed like he would be warm. Maybe it’s the fact that he can manage to wear polos and long black pants in the middle of a Texan summer.  
Maybe it’s because he never really touches you unless he’s going to toss you, or if it’s with a sword.  
Maybe it’s because he just seems completely inhuman, no matter what you do to rationalize it.

You bury yourself under your thin card-suit blankets, and drop your glasses on the floor because you’re having some _Minor Difficulties in the shit-giving department, please stand by while the operator tries to find somebody who can donate to your cause._


	3. The Final Instalment

_Apple-juice! Apple-juice! Your kingdom for a bottle of fucking apple-juice!_ Actually? You’d settle for orange soda at this point, if you had the balls to thieve it from your brother. You know where it is, and he knows you know where it is because you’re both cool like that, but you’re not sure you actually want to steal it from him. Sure, there’s a chance he might be impressed by your ability to sneak into his crawlspace and grab the orange soda without being caught in one of his traps, but there’s also the chance he hid it away up there because he actually doesn’t want you snagging his sweet loot.  
With all the irony in this apartment, you admit, sometimes you have trouble telling what’s actually going on. 

You’re slumped over in your computer chair, staring through your sunglasses at this recent comic project you’ve been working on, to post to one of your many ironic blogs. Maybe a few of them, depending on how it comes out when you actually go back to drawing it. Bro’s been gone for the majority of the morning, and you can only hope he’s been getting you some AJ, even though realistically, you know he probably isn’t. You’re not even sure he knows that you ran out-or, maybe he does know, but he’s waiting for you to do something.

That’d be the active thing to do. That’d be the ninja thing to do. You’re not much of either if you’re just sitting on your ass drawing in mspaint and wondering about it. You’ve got a phone. You could text him.

But no, you know you never will. You’ll get up and get some water in a minute or two.

Or three.

Or five.

Actually, fifteen minutes is a nice, solid amount of time.

So’s a half hour.

A full hour is even fuckin’ better.

When you actually get up, it’s about three hours and some change later. The door’s slam and your brother’s unmistakable voice are the motivations of the scene. You’re up like your strings have been yanked, without even thinking about it. He’s called your name, and so you throw on a shirt, and walk towards him, slipping—with some difficulty—into your attempted “cool guy slump-walk.” You’ve been working on it, and you think you can make it look natural if you just practice a little more.

“Hey,” Bro says as soon as you’re within Talking Range (probably about three yards from him at most. Anything else is a rap or a yell).  
“Sup,” you say, as cool as you can, trying not to look interested as you size up his loot. He’s got three bags in front of him. Two are doubtlessly full of orange soda and doritos, because that’s what happens when he goes to get groceries, and then the other one is a mystery. Maybe he got microwave pizzas. He’s done that once before, but there wasn’t enough space in the freezer because it was full of swords, so he just stuck them in the dishwasher with a couple bags of ice.  
“I got you something,” Bro says, but he doesn’t move, he just stands there.

It’s not like Bro’s never given you anything before. After all, you’re his li’l brother and all. It’s not like you could get a job at twelve, start making money for yourself, and pay the fucking rent on your own. He had to give you most of the shit you’ve got in your room. There’s like, a few things that are your own, but there’s not much a kid can do on his own, even in a huge city like this, and you hardly ever leave the apartment anyway.  
Even still, a sort of thrill runs through you. Bro usually gets pretty rad shit for you when he does get anything, and even if it was just a pack of mostly-eaten gum sticks you’d probably be thrilled to get it from him. 

“That’s cool,” you say, putting your hands into your pockets. Bro doesn’t move, you don’t move. Suddenly, there’s a soft, hot gust of air indicative of Bro’s flashstep cutting through the heavy summer air. He manages to open the ceiling door without dislodging the avalanche of smuppet ass, and you have to admire that, because you know the ass is up there waiting to fall down on you, and it just goes to show how cool bro is, that he can climb up there into the crawlspace without triggering the felt apocalypse.

The third grocery bag tips over on the counter. Cal, somehow, has relocated himself to above the refridgerator, and he watches you, his chin balanced impossibly on his little white-mittened hand, which is actually off-white, you know, although you can’t see it from here.  
Suddenly, you’re feeling kinda—you’re feeling like this is another test. It’s like some kind of spidey-sense, tailored specifically to Bro and Cal, like the worst kind of superpower.

You reach into the bag, and find a six-pack of small apple juice bottles. Cal is watching, so you try not to appear very excited. You don’t want him to get the idea that you’re a chump or anything. But just below the surface, you’re buzzing with excitement. He knows you love apple juice. When you were younger you were embarrassingly plain about when you liked things, actually asking for them and trying to casually mention them to Bro and shit—just thinking about it threatens to turn your ears red with shame.

You’re not even sure what you could’ve done to garner a gift from Bro—it’s not like this is a regular thing for him, although it does happen. You haven’t done anything new or impressive, you haven’t pulled off any new moves in strifes, you haven’t posted any new comics yet, you haven’t rapped a single verse that’s good enough to demand praise.  
You think back to that night, a couple weeks ago, on the couch—before he’d shoved you off, of course. Maybe it’s just a futile hope, but the idea crosses your mind, that maybe not shoving you away for however long you were resting on him, and maybe the apple juice—part of you hopes it might mean that he thinks you’re okay. That you’ve gotten cooler, since when you were a little kid, and you were shitty and whiney and needy. Maybe he thinks you’re an alright guy. Not as cool as him, of course, never that cool, but like.

Maybe, just maybe, he’s alright with you.

 

You twist one of the bottles out of the plastic chain that’s linking it to it’s group, and are pleased to find that the plastic is a little cool to the touch, like it just came out of the fridge of the supermarket.

You grab the cap, and it slides open, and you stop. You screw the cap back on. You twist it back off. It feels no different. Cal watches you from his position, painted chin in hand. There’s no sound from up in the crawlspace. 

You know you should just put it back with the others, but you’re curious. You’re also kind of horrified. You take the cap off entirely, holding it with two fingers, and you lean in to sniff the bottle. 

When you realize the pungent scent is piss, you almost drop the bottle in disgust. You twist the cap off the next bottle in the line, and it’s the same. By the fourth, you feel like you want to vomit. You consider dumping them down the sink to get rid of them, but in the end it’s just not worth it. There’s no sound from the crawlspace. Cal’s jaw clacks once, twice, three times—and you leave the room.

The piss bottles sit there for a week before you dump them into the toilet.

Bro doesn’t say anything else about them.

You don’t either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry


End file.
